Bite Through the Grit
by MissMarieMay
Summary: He knows what the feeling is, just like he knows what's causing it. It doesn't get any better.


**Author's Notes: **_I was writing some other fic then I wrote this instead. It was supposed to be funny and fluffy but somehow it turned into... this._

It starts as a low, curling feeling in the pit of his stomach; twisting and churning until it slowly starts to turn into a boil. It makes a path up his spine, crawling along until it reaches his chest where it seeps into his lungs. With each steadying breath he takes, it fills him up with more of the poison in his chest. His lungs are filled with hot embers and ashes and it _always_ feels like his insides are melting away. It makes him want to tear into his own skin until he can rip the feeling right out of him.

Yet, every other feeling is numbed when it finally reaches his heart. Then, it is a searing pain which courses through him. It makes him feel heavy with rage and small with grief. A campaign of anger marches throughout his body as the feeling continues to grow. He knows that it will not stop there, though. It will not stop until his consumes everything he is.

He knows this, so it's all he can do to not act out on any of the impulses he gets with it. He is no stranger to this feeling in the least. There was a time when it would surprise him, but he never mistook what he was feeling back then. He knew then just like he knows now. Just like he knows it will pass. Just like he knows he could prevent it from happening, he really could. He knows that all it took was to turn his head and advert his eyes.

However, what lies in front of him isn't something he simply can't watch. It's almost like seeing something completely unappealing but you can't help but stare at it. If only he could turn his head and look the opposite way when he sees that idiot redhead's hands go straight to his former partner's waist. If only he couldn't see the way the smaller one's eyes light up, even if the rest of his face stays blank, and the way his body leans into the hold.

The blue haired boy's hands land to rest on the arms of the taller one. He's given a big smile and a careless laugh. Every time one leans to talk into the other's ear, his mouth clenches and his heart races. They both look equally engaged in each other and it makes the feeling go berserk.

If he could just look away, then there would be no pain; no anger; no sadness.

God, he _knows_, but he doesn't. He _can't_.

So, instead, he continues to watch as his hands cluch tightly onto the ball in front of him. He doesn't have a right to feel this way; he gave that up a long time ago. The pounding of his heart and the ringing in his ears are screaming at him to do something, anything about it. His mouth is dry and he wants to shout. Or cry. He never knows which one anymore. The feeling in him shrouds any sense of judgement he may possess at the moment.

He never acts on it, though. He could, he always thinks, he could do something, but that would probably make things a lot worse than they already are.

His nostrils are flared and his heavy breaths come out a bit more even. The feeling hasn't retreated, not yet, but it is backing down a little. His shoulders are still drawn up and stiff. His legs still feel weak and shaky. It's almost a _need_ for him to walk up to that fake, wind back, and let his fist collide with that stupid face. He still doesn't move.

It's only when there's a hand gripping his shoulder, his arms give just a tiny bit. Although he acknowledges the person behind him, his eyes refuse to leave the sight just ahead of him.

"Dai-chan," her voice is soft, almost sounding like pity, "let go of the ball, Dai-chan."

Only then he notices his fingers that are diggning into the ball are starting to hurt. He clicks his tongue and loosens his grip but doesn't let go.

"_Tch_," he knows nothing he says will help right now. Instead, he opts to finally turn his head slightly in the direction of his friend. His eyes never fully leave the two in front of him, only flicker away for a second before returning. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his childhood friend watching him with a disheartening look.

"Dai-chan," she calls out to him again.

He says nothing for a moment and then replies, "Shut up, Satsuki."

Suddenly, he wants to leave and go home. Alone. It's better than staying here out of free will and getting tortured every second for it. He wants to go home and lie in his bed and read one of his adult magazines. He wants to watch some mindless televsion that has absolutely _nothing_ to do with basketball.

He wants to, really, so why, then, is he calling out to the two that were the cause of these feelings?

"Oi, Tetsu! Kagami! Come on, are we gonna play or what? Not that, you know, you'll stand a chance at beating me or anything," he shouts to the two.

Kagami, the idiot, turned to him with a red face and says, "Just you wait and see, loser, just you wait and see. I'll show you who the real winner is!"

Honestly, he couldn't care less about the stupid street game anymore but answers back anyways, "Please, you need Testu to even get halfway near as good as me."

Tetsu gives him a hard stare, one he always give when determined, then he says, "Be prepared, Aomine-kun."

"Bring it," he replies and starts to dribble the ball, getting back into game mode.

It doesn't pass him by the way Tetsu and Kagami look at each other before both smile and bring their game.

The way they move together is in perfect sync, like one, like how _they_ used to be, but he wins, like predicted. He always wins, but, as he watches the way Kagami offers a hand to help Tetsu up, the way Testu looks only at the red haired boy, the way their touches linger, the way Satsuki stands next to him with a sad smile, he knows. Just like he knows this _jealousy_, he knows who the real winner is.

And it's not him.


End file.
